


He Who Fights Monsters

by notanescalator



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Dark Themes, Canon-Typical Violence, Demonic Possession, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-20
Updated: 2016-11-20
Packaged: 2018-09-01 04:30:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8607898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanescalator/pseuds/notanescalator
Summary: “Elise Nichols has been dead for three days.” Elise's eyes were suddenly dark and cold, reminding Will of stones in a pool. “Do you still want to do this the easy way?”-Will is an exorcist coming out of retirement, and Dr. Hannibal Lecter has been recruited to anchor him to reality. But darkness is seductive and devils have sharp tongues.





	

**PROLOGUE**  
  
**Lewisburg, WV**  
  


It was 8:47am in early February, and the sun – currently hiding behind a thick sheet of cloud – was clearly reluctant to make its climb. Will's dark blue sedan felt its way through the piles of black slush, following the channels left by other tires. The small church parking lot was empty, save for the sparkling red mini-van belonging to Andrea Courdinier. With Will so often at the mercy of Jack, more of his workload had fallen to Andrea in the past year than Will was comfortable admitting.

As he eased out of the car, fat snowflakes drifted like feathers and clung to his coat and scarf, standing out against the black material. Will took a moment to appreciate the scene, made peaceful by the winter silence. The faded, green spire of the church pierced the silver sky like a needle, the yellow glow from the windows blurred in the air like smudged chalk. Combined with the surrounding firs, it had a Christmas card quality that made Will feel oddly melancholic.

Making his way to the side door, Will stepped in from the chill, the melting snow on his shoes mixing with the puddle left by Andrea's. He found her in the main hall, and the rush of indoor heat made his glasses steam up for a moment. Andrea was a tall woman with thin, honey-colored hair and a body kept athletic from a lifetime of softball. She had played in minor competitions since middle school, but took up coaching the junior team at the nearby leisure center after her first child was born. At the tournament last summer, Will had paid her back some by acting as a second chaperon while they went from game to game.

“Wasn't sure you'd make it in today,” Will admitted, wiping his lenses on a dry part of his scarf.

“The kids are with my mom for a few days, so I didn't have to drive them to school,” Andrea explained, with a noble attempt at cheerfulness. However, her voice sounded somewhat strained, and Will wondered if she and her husband were having problems again. For a split second he considered inquiring about it – in a subtle way – but decided it would only embarrass them both. He ran his hand along the polished wood of a nearby pew, as though the movement could inspire him to say something. “You should probably go get ready,” Andrea added, distractedly.

Will nodded, more of a twitch than a calculated gesture. “If you need anything...” he began, before trailing off awkwardly. She didn't look up from her task of setting out hymn books, and flustered as Will felt, he was thankful.

Will went to his office, tucked at the end of a small maze of unheated back rooms. It was tiny, almost entirely cluttered by the few items of furniture he had squeezed inside. He shed his thick coat and tugged off his scarf, suddenly feeling a little suffocated. His limbs were heavy and mouth thick – symptoms of the change in temperature and a fitful sleep. Last night his dream was consumed by a demon he hadn't met before. It had wandered through his house, grinning and knocking things over, but unresponsive no matter how much he yelled at it. Eventually he had been woken, drenched in sweat by his own tossing and turning. A glance at his clock had told him it was 7:42, and there was no point in going back to sleep, even if he had wanted to. His throat had been sore and he wondered if he had cried out.

He flopped down in the hard, green armchair he set out for guests, and scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to collect himself. Mercifully, it had been nearly a month since Jack had last put him on a case, so why did he feel so on edge? He went to the small, oval mirror next to the window and examined himself in it, as if the answer might be written on his skin. There was an apprehension in his eyes that he didn't fully connect with, as if his body was afraid without his consent. He hooked a finger behind the high collar, pulling it away from his neck, but it still felt as if something was there.

Will's cellphone was ringing. His eyes drifted back to his reflection as he answered it, voice rough and faint.

“Hey Reverend, it's Matthew.” Andrea's husband. His tone was plainly irritable, but there was a hint of... concern? “Is Andrea there?”

“Yes,” Will replied, and it was a moment before he realized Matthew probably needed a bit more than that. “Did you want to speak to her?” He wondered then if Andrea had her phone off, strange given that she always wanted to be reachable for her kids.

“I didn't think she would...” There was heavy sigh on the other end. “It's just she was supposed to take the kids to school this morning.” Will's brow furrowed in confusion.

“She said they were staying with their grandmother.”

“Andrea's mom?” Matthew asked, baffled. “She's in Europe.”

A cold finger trailed down Will's spine, and a gasp shook from his mouth. It made sense now, that sick feeling in his stomach, and the dream. “Let me just see if she's available,” he managed, mechanically, before dropping the phone onto the chair and hurrying in the direction of the hall. When he reached the door he placed his hands flat on it for a moment, leaning forward as a wave of fear made his head spin, then he steeled himself and pulled it open.

Andrea was bent over at the final row of benches, nearest the main door. She was still methodically laying out hymn books, her face angled away from Will. He hesitated for a moment, fingers clenching, before he moved slowly down the aisle. “How did you get inside the church?” His voice was firm, steadier than he felt.

She continued to move along the pew, ponytail swinging slightly. It was a familiar sight he associated with Andrea, and usually found oddly reassuring. Now there was something almost nauseating about it. “What do you mean?” she asked.   
  
“Don't,” he hissed, body tense with abrupt anger. “Don't play games with me.” Andrea stopped then, her back straightening, and her body turned toward him. Will was still a fair distance away, but he could see it now. There was no theatrical difference - her skin hadn't changed color, eyes weren't glowing, and she wasn't foaming at the mouth. But there was an unnatural gleam in her eyes, as if something was behind them that wasn't there before. Will hadn't seen Andrea in the last three days - plenty of time for the demon to make its home. With a quiet horror, he wondered if it had been inside her house.

It shrugged and threw down the remaining hymn books, making a face as if to say _oh well_. “Never said we couldn't get inside a holy building. You just assumed.” Will stopped then, unsettled both by the revelation and his own naivete, and It smiled almost piteously. “It's not easy, I'll grant you. It can be a bit like trying to walk against the crosswind of a jet. But a building's force-field is only as strong as its leader, so this is more like climbing an escalator going the opposite way.” He tried to ignore the sting that comment elicited, but the demon's tone had made his blood boil.  
  
“Get out of her,” Will said, voice shaking slightly as he struggled to keep both his anger and panic in check. It wouldn't be long before people arrived for the service, and he wasn't sure whether the demon would flee or kill them. It could slit Andrea's throat and jump into someone else. “If your kind socialized more, you'd know not to underestimate me.”

The demon walked leisurely into the aisle and faced Will, as if reenacting a confrontation in a Western. It held out its hands, palms up, a gesture usually associated with peace. “Show me.”

 

 

**CHAPTER ONE**

**Six months later**

**Fairfax, VA**  
  


Jack Crawford waited in the foyer of Alana Bloom's practice, listening to the unseasonable wind buffet the spotless windows. The office was on the third floor of a mid-town commercial building, polished and eye-catching enough to attract clientele, but still discreet and tasteful enough to ensure the privacy of those who paid for it. The location held it back from the majority of traffic, so aside from the wind it was almost eerily silent in the waiting area; Alana was with the final patient of the day, and her secretary had a natural quietness that extended to the volume of her breathing. Every so often she reached up to tap something on the keyboard with the very tips of her fingers, eyes barely lifting from the book in her lap to catch pinpoints of light from the screen. She looked a little like Jack had always imagined a daughter of his and Bella's to look.

The thought stung slightly and he lowered his gaze to his lap. While a psychiatrist's office was an appropriate place to consider one's personal issues, that wasn't why he was there.

He heard the door to the consulting room open and glanced up in time to see Alana step out with a young man – white, early 20s, around 5'10”, fashionable clothes but poorly coordinated, a sweep of ash blonde hair on his head. Jack had a bad habit of mentally listing people's appearances like a report on those missing or wanted, one that had only solidified after years in the FBI. The boy had a naturally anxious disposition, but there was an air of borrowed calm that he seemed to be soaking up from Alana. She had that effect on people.

Alana had been saying her goodbye in a low, reassuring tone, a bright smile on her face like that of a teacher praising a student, but the smile twitched just slightly when her eyes took in Jack seated there. Fiercely professional in her own way, she banished the discomfort Jack knew was blooming, to see the boy – Aidan – off politely and cheerfully. If her patient's good mood faded later, it at least made it past the door.

Alana turned to Jack, assessing him not with hostility but caution. She had a confidence that made her look taller than she actually was. “Is this an ambush?” she asked, only half-serious.

Jack got to his feet slowly. “Why, do you feel under attack?” An amused light filled Alana's eyes and she smiled genuinely then, almost as if by accident. Jack mirrored the sentiment as Alana's secretary started to put away her things in the background. Alana turned at the waist to address her warmly.

“I'll lock up tonight Beth, you're free to head out when you're ready.”

“Are you sure?” Beth asked, notably relieved. “I'm not sorry. I agreed to let my girlfriend start dinner for our families tonight, and I'll be damn lucky if she hasn't burned the apartment down already.” Alana laughed and shared some parting words before gesturing Jack into her consulting room. He spared a polite smile for Beth, who was tugging her curls free of the collar of her jacket as the door closed.

“Nice girl,” he told Alana, eyes flicking around the room. The furniture was relatively sparse, but distributed in a way that filled the small room well. A cherry wood desk was in the left corner opposite the door, arranged at a slant so that whoever sat there would almost be penned into the corner (more for decoration – he knew Alana never sat there during a session). The shelves behind it were decked with a few knick-knacks, and photos of scenery that Alana had taken along with her various certificates were framed in a vertical line beside them. Just in front of the desk was a cushioned, wooden armchair facing a chocolate-colored sofa on which Alana's patients presumably sat. A row of American walnut bookshelves ran behind it, containing psychiatric volumes and files, with Post-its sticking out like fluorescent teeth. A stream of light cut a line through the room – almost symbolically, between Alana's chair and the sofa – extending from a floor-to-ceiling window in the center of the wall. Every so often, the jade leaves of of the tall maple outside would slap against the window like someone demanding attention, but the window was closed and the white curtains were still.

He had only been here once before, and had been surprised by the relatively small size; typically psychiatrists with Alana's income had sprawling consulting rooms, flecked with unnecessary furniture, but Alana considered it somewhat vain. It was important – she had explained – for her patients to feel at home, as some of them felt small enough without being dwarfed by their surroundings. Appropriately, the cream of the carpet and the blue of the walls nearly matched the study in Alana's own home. For Jack's part, he attempted to make a much clearer divide between his professional and domestic life. The two bled into each other enough without encouragement.

“So what brings you here, Jack?” Alana asked, in a way that most would mistake for polite inquiry, but Jack translated to _cut the bullshit_. She had her back turned, scribbling a note in what he assumed was Aidan's file before sliding it into the shelf.

Jack spoke carefully, like he was slowly nudging the words out of his mouth with his tongue. “I think... you know why I'm here. Or is there another reason you've been avoiding me?”

Alana turned back to him, arms folded over her chest. “I haven't exactly been _avoiding_ you,” she countered, tone soft but precise. “What concerns me is that you're not here to heed my advice so much as tick boxes. So if something goes wrong you can say you... consulted a professional, you followed protocol.” Jack sighed slightly and lowered himself into Alana's chair, but allowed her to continue. It was only fair, considering that she was more or less right. “People aren't a series of checklists, Jack,” she told him firmly, “you have to combine your professional experience with your discretion and observation.”

“And you think I don't want to 'see' Will Graham?”

“I think you see him, but I think you only _acknowledge_ what serves your interests.” She looked at him, unflinching. The diamond pattern on her dress suddenly reminded Jack of scales of armor.

He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair before getting to his feet and walking toward her. “Will's abilities... save people, Alana, and in this profession a certain amount of risk is required to get the job done.”

“Except you don't really know what it is you're risking. Or you don't want to know.”

Frustration bubbled inside Jack and he moved toward the window. “Do you have any idea what's going on out there?” He pointed vaguely out at the street to illustrate his point. “You haven't been involved in a case directly in years. Something massive is coming, and we have no way of knowing what, let alone how to fight it. We've got dead bodies piling up, in ways we can barely explain to the public, and documented possessions have gone up by 5% in the last two years. This is Hell. Waging war. On Earth.”

Alana leaned back slightly, incredulous. “Do you think just because I haven't been in the field I don't know the circumstances? Every time your team pulls a demon out of someone, who do you send them to? They come to me in the worst possible state, because the alternative is putting them in a hospital where the doctors believe they're lying or delusional. The _things_ they tell me, Jack, they make me sick to my stomach.” Her voice had been rising, but at that moment it faltered slightly, and she paused to clear her throat. “And I don't just go home at night, relax and watch a movie like I live in some sort of bubble, like it's none of my business. I stay in the loop, I have to know the minute details of what happened to these people in order to help them. So don't accuse me of being a back-seat driver.”

“So you understand what we're up against,” Jack replied, calming down some. “Believe it or not, I don't want to make Will's life a misery, but he has talents that we sorely need, and he would put the lives of innocent people before his own well-being.” _I'm counting on that_. “I came to you because I value your professional opinion. I will take the precautions you recommend, and – if he should need the support – I need you to ensure he isn't out there alone.”

“My professional opinion? I wouldn't put him out there at all. If you want someone to spy on his mental state, I suggest you pick someone else. I am his friend and I intend to stay that way. I can't do that if I'm poking around his head – he wouldn't thank me for it.”

“Then maybe you can refer me to someone who can.” Jack realized the inelegance of his statement and quickly added: “Keep Will oriented, that is.”

“Are you suggesting an Anchor?” Alana frowned. “You know how he feels about those.”

“Perhaps it's just a case of finding the right one.”

*

**Anchor:** The term for someone who provides stability and assistance to the main exorcist working on a case, usually a retired or senior exorcist, religious leader, or psychiatric professional with occult experience. Any exorcist can elect to work with an Anchor, but they are generally assigned to those dealing with particularly difficult cases or to exorcists with a history of psychological problems or trauma. An Anchor's involvement can range from merely supervising an exorcist in the field, to providing therapy and even assisting in an exorcism should they possess the relevant training. The origin of the term dates back to the 1970s, and refers to the individual's role i.e. to anchor the exorcist to reality and spiritual goodness.  
-FBI Encyclopedia of Exorcism, Occultism and Demonology, K. Gaines  


 

*

**Christian Refuge, Alexandria, VA**  
  


The Alexandria streets were already flush with August sunlight as Will Graham passed through the doors of the shelter. All 80 beds were currently filled, and some of the residents were drooping in the communal lounge but it was almost silent, as if the building itself was weary from the heat. Slotted almost into the center of the city's grid, the red-brick structure had been a high school until it's closure in the mid 80s, and – after being left empty for a year – was purchased by the owner of a chain of hardware stores. Christopher Fisher was a religious man, and had it renovated with the intention of using it as a faith-based shelter for the homeless and those fleeing abuse. Though he took an active interest in the upkeep of the shelter, most of the day-to-day work fell to a team of counselors, volunteers and Reverend Henry Cheung, who had been the leader of Fisher's church in Springfield before a fire had gutted it. Up until five months ago, the Reverend's son Lee worked at the shelter, and assisted with the open services that Henry conducted in the main hall. When Lee was offered leadership of a church in North Carolina, Will became his replacement.

The main hall had been the school's gymnasium, and Henry's warm, confident timbre filled it in ways that Will's plaintive tone never could. The congregation look consoled and even awestruck as they listened to Henry speak, his conviction – if only temporarily – lifting their concerns from them. Will envied that power; the people that had attended his church in Lewisburg had liked him, certainly, but his services always had the atmosphere of an audience watching a particularly reckless escape artist. It was entertaining, and they admired the effort that went into it, but were always anticipating that something would go horribly wrong, perhaps even hoping it might.

He had been preparing the projector for a slide show that Henry was going to play, but froze when the nervous sweep of his gaze took in Jack Crawford, stationed passively in front of the door at the back. A strange sense of foreboding coursed through him, carrying an assortment of unpleasant memories.

_Thousands of bugs scuttling over the ground, across his feet. A horrific roar that seemed to be in him as well as around him, making his bones vibrate. The scent of something burning in his nostrils. The scent of--_

“What do you see, Will?”

Will inhaled abruptly, feeling as if someone had been gripping his lungs with both hands and just let go. He glanced momentarily at the door to his left, wondering with wry humor if Jack had someone posted outside it. Cover all the exits, don't let him get away. An uneasy smile came to his lips, and he attempted to flatten it.

“Will?” Henry said politely, jolting him back to reality. “Could you get the lights?”

Seven minutes later – amid low chatter and the shuffle of Henry putting his notes away – Jack cut a path through the tide of residents as they drained out of the hall. Will shoved his glasses onto his face and began heading for the door, not raising his head until Jack was directly in front of him.

“Will Graham. Or do I still address you as 'Reverend'?” Will scoffed slightly. Henry was watching them curiously, probably expecting some sort of introduction. But the less questions Will had to answer, the better.

“Not a pastor anymore, Jack,” he muttered, tugging open the double doors. “Not _technically_.”

“So I heard.” Jack paused a minute, probably to see if Will would explain voluntarily. “What made you retire, crisis of faith?” They stopped in an empty side corridor, free from prying ears and eyes. Through an open window, Will could hear the shelter's kids playing on the basketball court.

“Faith isn't my problem, I'm confident that what was out there before hasn't gone away.” He looked in the direction of Jack's face, but let the frame of his glasses block Jack's eyes. “I wasn't particularly well-versed at providing spiritual counsel.” The truth was, that being looked to as an example of purity and goodness always made him feel like a fraud. The way he worked left him exposed and he knew, intuitively, that every exorcism he had performed left some sort of stain on him. And then there was Andrea...

“It's what's out there that brings me to you,” Jack said suddenly, and Will's reverie ended like the violent slam of a door. He wanted to squirm; he had guessed from the moment he saw Jack that he hadn't stopped by for a light chat, and having to endure the sales pitch was almost painful. Jack knew not to simply walk in and ask straight out, because then maybe, just maybe Will could escape. Jack chose his words carefully, each of them a well-aimed arrow to pin Will in place. “May I?” He indicated Will's glasses, and Will nodded, sighing softly, as Jack pushed them up the bridge of Will's nose. He was now fixed with the full power of Jack's scrutiny, and it left his face feeling hot. “How much do you know about recent demonic activity?”

Will scratched the nape of his neck. “I know as much as is fitting for a civilian to know.” That wasn't strictly true; after leaving Jack's team, he had kept in touch with Beverly Katz and Alana Bloom, mostly through email. However, Beverly had a tendency to show up at his door unannounced (generally with a six-pack and a movie heavy on the explosions). They furnished him with vague details – possession statistics, crimes committed by those under the influence of a demon, unusual rituals. He had known a storm was brewing, it was a sensation that hit him now and then, like a shower running suddenly cold. He had been expecting Jack for quite a while now.

Jack glanced over his shoulder and then produced a manila folder – he'd been concealing it with his folded jacket – placing it on the windowsill next to Will. He considered it but made no move to examine it, so Jack reached forward and flipped it open with one finger, fanning out a small stack of photos. Will swallowed around what felt like a golf ball; the photos showed a girl's bedroom completely torn apart, the walls streaked with blood and the wallpaper gouged like claw wounds, close ups of bleeding scratch-marks on a man's face, and then finally a young woman in her bed. She was a brunette, probably in college although her harrowed complexion made her seem older. There were some livid bruises on her pale arms and legs, blood clogging her nostrils and staining her fingertips, fingernails broken.

“Elise Nichols,” Jack informed him, clearly. The name was important. The name made her real.

“Jack--”

“We estimate she's been possessed for about a month. A week ago we were called in to start treating her, but all attempts at exorcising the demon have been unsuccessful.”

Will frowned. Typically, when a team of professionals like Jack's were called in they could exorcise someone within 24 hours. Maybe if the bastard was a little more stubborn it would take 2-3 days. But a week? “There's been no change whatsoever? _No_ movement?”

“The son of a bitch hasn't so much as sneezed.” Will tried to tug his gaze away from the photographs, but he was inexorably drawn to them. “As you can see it attacked her father.” Will wasn't looking at Mr. Nichols, however, but Elise. Her eyes were empty, haunted and had dark circles underneath - her pallor was typical of a host when the demon was in remission, and demonstrated the extent of the damage – not just to their body, but their soul as well. Elise could have passed for a corpse, and her appearance combined with the knowledge of how long she had been inhabited did not make Will optimistic (the file would show she hadn't eaten in a little over a week). There was another photo of her with a much healthier color, her eyes bright and open in a way that was unsettling. The demon had been wide awake when that photo was taken. “There's been a pattern in recent possessions – Elise is the latest in a string of similar-looking girls. We need you on this, Will.”

“You have Alana Bloom,” Will murmured, trying to banish the connection he was already forming with the girl in the photo. “And Heimlich in Massachusetts.”

“Dr. Bloom retired from exorcism to focus on treating possession victims. And neither of them do what you do. You have that specific method.”

Will let out a bitter huff of air, a poor excuse for a laugh. “Yeah, there's been a lot of discussion about my method.”

“Let me worry about that.” Will turned away from Jack and placed a hand on the wall, as if he could draw strength from it. “I know you, Will. You won't walk away from this.”

A long pause. “Where is she?” he asked, suddenly tired.

*

“An FBI agent has asked me to act as Anchor for one of his exorcists.” Bedelia paused for a moment as she re-entered the room, making the wine swirl gently in the glasses she held in her hands. “I've decided to accept.”

Her eyes rested on the back of Hannibal's head until she was beside him, handing down his Cabernet Sauvignon. “Is that wise?” she asked, crossing the room.

“What have I to fear?” His voice drifted calmly above the second movement of Beethoven's Sonata Pathétique, as if sorry to interrupt it. Bedelia made herself comfortable in her own chair before speaking again.

“In my personal experience, fear is a concept you are unfamiliar with,” she replied, watching as he tilted the wine with peculiar elegance toward his mouth. As he drank, there was a subtle relaxation of his face that she recognized as appreciation. “I ask, really, what you have considered.”

“In your personal experience, have you known me to be careless?” Bedelia knew that was rhetorical and so took a sip of her own wine, waiting for him to continue. “I have accounted for the possibility of exposure, of my own banishment. I find neither of those likely.”

“And others, those you would... help to expose?”

Hannibal lifted his head, a gesture of almost regal disgust. “I hold no loyalty to those the humans seek to extinguish.” He looked sharply at her, a mixture of curiosity and amusement in his eyes. “Are you afraid I will betray you?”

Setting her glass on the table, she smiled coolly. “No.” _Not unless the alternative was your destruction_. “You have kept yourself removed from the conflict between humanity and those below for a long time. You've never complained of boredom.”

His eyes brightened in a curious way and he stood, moving toward the window behind her. “I think it could be... quite educational.”

A strange sort of dread meandered down her throat, curling in her stomach, but her face did not change. “Educational for whom?”

Hannibal was turned away from her, silhouetted against the light. “Ideally, both of us.”

There was a heavy silence for a moment. Bedelia almost expected a drum-roll, the crash of a guillotine.  
  


 

**Duluth, MN**

Most of the journey passed Will by in a blur of transport and information; Jack had talked all the way to Reagan National, but apparently saw fit to let him rest once they were in the air. The second flight had been completely lost to a heavy sleep, and by the time they alighted in Duluth, Will felt hot and lethargic. It didn't really seem that he was there, but one step removed, viewing everything through a camera lens. It was early evening by the time they set off from the airport, a light rain bejeweling the windows of their rental car. Jack was oppressively silent, which left Will to consider the five months they had spent apart from each other.

Jack acted with the same entitlement to Will that he had before, perhaps more aggressively so. Will imagined that had something to with the manner in which he had retired, that is to say, as discreetly as possible. He knew that if he had allowed Jack the forewarning, he would have put all his energy into changing Will's mind, and he already had more guilt than he could stomach. Jack felt betrayed, and Will couldn't honestly begrudge him for that, had accounted for it when he left. Aside from his natural desire to help Elise, Will felt somewhat obligated to do as Jack said, and he wasn't sure whether his agreement was a step toward repairing their relationship, or simply what Jack felt he was owed. There was always a certain amount of self-sacrifice when you involved yourself with Jack Crawford.

Regardless of the classified and very separate nature of the ambiguously named Identity Preservation Unit, the pervasive attitude typical of the FBI was very much present within Jack's department. Before the IPU, he had worked in Behavioral Analysis, through which he had developed an almost religious ferocity when it came to pursuing criminals. And though he was not what Will would call a spiritual man, this had translated easily and appropriately to his treatment of demons. Jack's job was who he was, it was tied to his philosophy of life, and so to disrespect the work was to disrespect the man.

Will opened the case file on his lap once more, the squeak of the windshield wipers a soundtrack to his reading. Elise Nichols was a 19-year-old anthropology major who – during a summer trip home – had started exhibiting “unusual and violent behavior”. It hadn't been long before her concerned parents had taken her to a therapist, who fortunately was an acquaintance of Jack's. When it came to successfully tackling possessions, half the struggle was being in the position to identify them as such, and for every one which was reported there were three that weren't.

The tapping of raindrops had stopped, and Will raised his head. The Nichols house looked deceptively pleasant in the vanishing sunlight; the front lawn was neat and trimmed with flowers in fiery hues, and the silver Toyota had been cleaned recently. _Perhaps washing it helps to distract them_. The green shutters on the windows reminded him of beach houses. Both lights were on in the front of the home, and the door opened before Jack and Will reached the porch steps, revealing a woman with short, curly blond hair. She looked painfully exhausted, and had her arms crossed tightly against her chest, the way Will had seen a lot of victims' parents do. Possibly it made them feel as if they could hold themselves together. Will caught himself doing it on occasion.

“Mrs Nichols,” Jack greeted solemnly, drawing level with her. “This is Reverend Graham.” Will was poised to correct Jack, but stopped when he caught sight of Mrs Nichols face. There was a mixture of desperation and accusation, as if to say _you've come to interrupt my life, so you'd better do something_. Now was not the time to argue semantics.

“I know you like privacy,” Jack whispered, after ushering Mrs Nichols back into the living room. “Give me a shout if you need anything.”

Unlike the front yard, the inside of the house betrayed the deterioration of the Nichols life. It was clear they once took pride in their home, but now dishes were beginning to pile up in the kitchen, dust was collecting in corners as though someone had only cleaned the surfaces quickly, and a coat had fallen out of the under-stairs closet and become caught in the door. Will stood on the bottom stair and studied the adjacent line of family portraits on the wall.

“Zeller owes me twenty bucks.” Beverly Katz emerged from the kitchen, eyes glinting with amusement.

“Sorry?”

“He said Jack'd never get you here. I knew better.” She leaned against the balustrade, folding her arms.

“Well I think part of me shook loose in Virginia airspace,” Will said, rubbing at his eyes with one hand. “What made you so sure I'd come?”

“Morbid, professional curiosity.” Beverly shrugged. “And you always do the right thing.”

_Not always_ , Will thought, grimacing. “ _Nasty_ habit.”

“Uh huh. Well you're not going back into hiding when this is over. You can buy me a beer this time.”

Will had to smile. “Sounds fair.” Beverly patted him on the arm and headed back to the kitchen, where Zeller and Price were bickering over the breakfast counter.

He ascended hesitantly to the landing, the evening sun throwing long shadows down the walls and carpet, and making the framed photos seem somehow older than they were. It was like exploring a house that had been abandoned during some disaster or other, all possessions and signs of life preserved, but with none of the warmth of a home. A female agent named Henderson was guarding Elise's door, and Will politely dismissed her; he hated having company when he was working, and didn't want to be held responsible if someone barged in and got themselves killed. It had happened before.

As Will eased open the bedroom door, the first thing that caught his eye was the collection of travel photos tacked to the walls – a mixture of professional photos, brochure clippings, postcards and photos presumably taken by Elise herself. The room was a journey through colorful gardens at Versailles to the sand dunes of the Gobi desert, the labyrinthine streets of Tokyo, the sun-drenched architecture of Delhi, and the lush green of the Amazon rainforest. Most photos showed only locals or tourists, but one or two of the national locations featured Elise smiling shyly in front of a landmark or sign.

“Quite the explorer isn't she?” Will reluctantly looked at the figure in the bed, seemingly unbothered by the spell-laden restraints that anchored It to the frame. “It's admirable but, I mean, you wander outside your comfort zone and look what happens.”

“It's not unreasonable for someone to leave their house... and expect their identity won't be stolen from them.” Will's anger simmered beneath the surface, and only opened his mouth wide enough for the words to slip out.

The demon smiled and went to make some sort of gesture, but since Elise's hands were bound, her arms only lifted in a restricted shrug. “I didn't mug someone for their purse,” It replied, “there's an art to what we do.”

Will sneered and closed the bedroom door with a little more force than was necessary. “And when you attacked Elise's father with his daughter's hands, was _that_ art?”

The demon scowled and shook their head. “He tested my patience.”

Will took a deep breath, and unbuttoned his coat. “Artists like to sign their work. So who are you?”

It smiled, as though playing a game. “You haven't introduced yourself yet.”

Will could feel a heat soaking the room that had nothing to do with the season. It was coming from the demon, and spreading out toward him. “You... you know who I am,” Will replied, taking a small step back. _You knew the second I walked in the door_.

“Do I?” The demon stared at him for a few long moments, and then chuckled when Will didn't budge. “Okay, fine, but you don't need to ask my name either. You can find out for yourself.”

“It would be easier for you if you just told me.”

“Elise Nichols has been dead for three days.” Elise's eyes were suddenly dark and cold, reminding Will of stones in a pool. “Do you still want to do this the easy way?”

Will felt a wave of anger and horror, and turned away to reach into his inside coat pocket. As his fingers closed over the thin metal chain, the memories of the last time he had done this began unfurling in his brain. A week after Andrea's possession, he had left St. Paul's and West Virginia with it, but behind the curtain of his eyelids he could still walk through the church as he had known it, see the way the walls had peeled back and almost smell the stench of Hell as it poured into the hall. He still dreamed about what he saw when Andrea faded away to reveal the demon hiding underneath.

The Pendulum glinted softly as Will lifted it into the light, but he did not have to catch the end to stop it from swinging. As soon as it fell from the coil in his palm it became straight as a rod, unnaturally still. The disc at the end of the chain was made of silver, scuffed by age and careless storage. Its front was etched with sharp, cursive sigils and the back was engraved “ _Aperite portam quae semper est claudenda_ ” in flowing script. It often called to mind the first time he met Beverly, how bold and inquisitive she had been with him while Jack's other subordinates shuffled awkwardly around him, as though avoiding stepping on dog excrement. Or broken glass.

_“What does it mean?” Katz asked, hand shielding her eyes from the sunlight that drenched the parking lot. Will glanced pointedly at the sunglasses perched on her head, pulling her hair away from her face. But there was no unkindness in her gaze, no apprehension, so he made no remark._

_“Sorry?”_

_“The Latin on the pendant. What does it mean?”_

_Will reflexively placed a hand over the pocket that contained the relic. “Uh, it means 'open that door which must always be closed'.”_

_Beverly's eyebrows lifted momentarily and she grinned. “You a daredevil, Reverend?”_

There was a radiance to the way the demon looked at the Pendulum, like a fan seeing something owned by their idol. The restraints clanked loudly as it strained to get a better view. _It_ wants _me to use it_ , Will thought, approaching the bed. “You seem pleased,” he observed, reprovingly.

“I've wanted to see it for a long time,” the demon admitted, unabashed, “how it works? There are plenty who believe it doesn't exist.”

Will eyes flickered to the wall, gaze lingering on a photo of Elise in San Francisco, the Golden Gate bridge stretching behind her into the blue. The shape of her face was softer, younger, and there was a yellow band-aid on the index finger that hooked her hair out of her eyes. Her smile was bright and without a trace of self-consciousness, like she had been caught laughing. This girl would never hear her footsteps echo in the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, but the demon inside her was acting like a kid on a class trip. Disgust made Will's body rigid. “Let's hope it's worth dying for,” he muttered, the words smoking out from between curled lips.

“We'll see,” It said, a smile being the last thing Will saw as he closed his eyes.

He had learned a long time ago that not watching the door open spared some unpleasantness. He held his arm out straight, gathered as much oxygen as he could from the already warm air – charged like the precursor to an electric storm – and twisted his wrist, making the Pendulum swing from side to side. There was a low hum, which got steadily louder as the arc of the Pendulum grew wider. The floor seemed to vibrate and heave below Will's feet, and he felt as though he was moving outside of the lines of his body, like an image on an old videotape. Finally the hum was overpowered by a roar, and a suffocating heat slammed up against his front, winding its way around him and squeezing air out of his lungs. His chest burned, and he wanted to gasp for breath, but he knew taking in too much of the atmosphere would hurt more. The roar continued, just a little quieter, and so slowly, he opened his eyes.

Before he had seen it for the first time, Will imagined Hell somewhere between Rodin's Gates and the bright red inferno typical of an episode of Looney Tunes. It wasn't either. It stretched out endlessly in every direction, desaturated and bleak, with towering structures that were crumbling and shapeless, like termite mounds. Gigantic trees – or at least they looked like trees – ashy as charcoal sketches, rose up on all sides, their trunks wide as skyscrapers but twice as tall, topped with foliage like gray mushroom clouds. They constantly littered a black soot, and their roots snaked down deep, through yawning cracks in the earth that the acrid heat poured out of, to where the souls burned and screamed. A demon had told him once:

_“When you first see it, you almost think it isn't so bad. I mean, it's Hell, y'know? You can't really breathe, but you're dead anyway. It's hot, but your flesh isn't burning. All things considered, could be worse. But you look too long at the shadows, it swims like the shapes you see when you squeeze your eyes shut. You notice the earth between your toes is ash and bone fragments, and then you hear the screams. You start to walk, and you look down through the cracks, and there they are. So many eyes staring back up at you. Arms clawing at the air. Bodies crawling over each other like maggots, and you can smell them._

_And you feel sick even though you didn't think that was possible anymore. You realize your feet are sinking into the ground, it gives way beneath you and you almost slip down there. With them. So you keep walking. But then you get hot and tired, because the heat never lets up – there's no sun to go down – and that roaring in your ears never goes away, so you pause. You start to catch your breath as much as you can, and then the ground starts to move again. And as you struggle to pull your feet free it dawns on you - you can't stop walking. The ground won't support you. You either keep moving, or you end up down there with the rest of them.”_

The ground below Will's feet was firm, a form of protection the Pendulum offered him. Also, he was not fully in Hell; he could see a flimsy image of the human world around them – the walls of Elise's house, and the homes and streets beyond – like a double exposure. Catching the Pendulum, it went still once more, and Will found that he was no longer facing Elise.

“I see your true form. You cannot conceal it here,” Will stated, feeling as though someone else was producing the words. The name did not suggest itself clearly, as it usually did, but he could make an educated guess. “You were once powerful. Genuine royalty. What _happened_? Why are you hiding in a young girl?” The mess of facial features twisted into a shape that Will recognized as a smile, the mouth opening in stretches of flesh, like glue pulled apart. Even from their distance, Will picked up the waft of Their breath, a body rotting from the inside out. “You're not hiding,” he continued, face twisted slightly in disgust, “but waiting. This isn't some small-town possession to kill the time, no, this is bigger. You're not scared of this.” As if on cue, Their gaze drifted to take in their surroundings, eyes fond. It was an emotion so out of place in a face like that. “This is your _home_. You want it to grow. You want it to cover everything like a tidal wave.”

“Isn't it beautiful?” They asked, eagerly, in a voice that scraped and screeched like old metal. It cut into Will, making him feel strangely cold. “It's hard for most humans to appreciate, because it frightens them. It offends their senses. They're not used to it, and they've spent an entire lifetime fearing it. They use the word 'hell' to describe something appalling, they call it the _Pit_.” They broke into a snarl, as though personally affronted. “But you can appreciate it, can't you?”

**Author's Note:**

> I started this quite a while ago when the show was still running, and then never really got round to posting it (overthinking it). Then the show got cancelled and I wondered if it was worth doing, but reading through it again I felt good about what I had, so we'll see how this goes.
> 
> The Pendulum idea came from the effect when Will rewinds a crime scene, as referred to in the script: "a pendulum [...] swings in the darkness of Will Graham’s mind, keeping rhythm with his heart beat."


End file.
